


A thing of beauty

by RationalistRomantic (Chryses)



Series: Appointment in 221B [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Amoral Themes, And his adventures with sentiment, Big Brother Mycroft, But also not so AU first-meeting, Consensual Possession, Deal-making, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, The author trying to be clever, The makings of a conundrum, you'll see when you read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 10:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10488525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryses/pseuds/RationalistRomantic
Summary: Sherlock makes a deal with Death.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Oooh, I'm so excited for you guys to read this one.
> 
> Just a thing to note:
> 
> He/His/Him in hyphenation is referencing to Death himself, and his capabilities. So, when you see it, it's actually referring to his very being, rather than a pronoun.
> 
> Also, there's no need to read part 1, this one can be a stand-alone.
> 
> Okay, enjoy!

Death, in itself was a thing of beauty. Obviously - as his brother had unhelpfully indoctrinated - it was the only thing that humans can be relied upon to do. As to its retrieval, well, _He_ \- amongst other things - found a certain...well he couldn't specifically surmised it as enjoyment (seeing as he had no capacity for such a very _human_ reaction), however, it was the closests thing he could define it as, in the jumble of letters people called vocabulary.

 

Specifically, Death was a rare gift when it came in a form of a puzzle. Anybody could poison themselves with a vice, and be unaware of its true nature until it had its claws latched onto the last of their lifespans. _He_ himself had dabbled in a particular opioid, and found it redeemable (a particular compliment he so very rarely indulged in) until he realized that he became a magnet for these so called ‘ghosts', and had risked his position. The title held no particular meaning to him, however, the job did wonders for stretching out his mental capacity, and so he stayed with it. A convenient distraction, if you will.

 

Immortals like _He_ had very little to no past times as is; the gateway was only limited to one location, and that itself was hardly a difficult feat when humans met their demise.

 

A particular one had stumbled, just when he’d just donned a fresh cuppa, and for a mere second, he loathed his profession. A _mere second_ that would’ve costed him a lifetime’s worth of tedium - something that he wouldn't have risked too easily.

 

“How can you stand this?” The expanse of his dark robe stretched from behind him, whilst he studied the decomposing flesh that baked underneath the Afghan sun. Naturally, he would’ve abandoned the job altogether, knowing there was probably a war going on, but as it was, he would’ve been nagged to do the collection eventually.

 

From there, he met John Watson, who was supposedly due, and then he wasn’t.

 

Hardly anybody could escape their fate, which brought _His_ interest as to how a soldier such as this one could’ve escaped it, when his chances of survival was very slim. Now, where was this (supposedly) interesting human hiding?

 

Maybe this one? No, Carlton Marx, extreme blood loss - could be any second now.

 

Or this one? Oh, just took his last breath. Boring.

 

Lost leg.

 

Interesting scald on the right half of his face. Explosion? Oh, triggered a landmine. More of an idiot, then. Anyway, he looked too out of it to realize that he was being scanned, so it was best not to draw too much attention on himself.

 

He took more steps, and some would flinch away from his sight. Hardly an effort to execute, seeing as they would see to their end soon enough.

 

 _He_ was about to inquire about the particular name, but a small movement had caught his attention towards a soldier who had his face planted on the sand. There was a possibility that he would’ve dismissed the presence altogether - seeing as the blood pooled beautifully around him, and there was an unmistakable bullet wound to an area under his collarbone (judging by it’s location) - but there was a controlled hitch of movement toward the uninjured side, and what kind of a being would he be to leave a stone unturned?

 

The moment that he saw the man’s face, he knew this man to be John Watson. He had his eyes closed, but it was definitely him. Was he actually pretending he was dead? Do people really do that? Now the very idea just offended him. Who did this man think _He_ was? Unlikely that he knew about the visit, and _He_ didn’t exactly looked earthly to be on the opposing brigade.

 

Oh, affirmative, he did think that. Idiot.

 

As someone with the ability to devise multiple scenarios in a span of one sitting, he had never anticipated for his meeting with this John Watson to be so...unordinary. Obviously, he wasn’t as gifted as _He_ is when it came to the well of knowledge that he’d strived to perfect for millenias, but he had an interesting take on human nature that _He_ couldn’t fully consider banal, therefore, he was just a bit more interesting than the others. Maybe much moreso than...he shook his head; definitely not the time for such trivialities.

 

Their little meeting started, and ended - surprisingly - on a positive note. Hmm. Would this little experiment - perhaps - be worth repeating again? Well. He did intend to expedite a vacation somewhere in his agenda, didn’t he? Mycroft obviously wouldn’t be too pleased about the neglect, but _He_ could hardly care for the wrath of his so-called brother who made it his business for _Him_ to carry on his responsibilities with adequate effort.

 

Either way, he had already arranged his agreement with this John Watson, and he was hardly one to back out once a deal had been made. With parting words, he disappeared from sight on the hunt for yet another entity that reluctantly sung _His_ name for his last breath.

 

Reluctantly? Was he not aware of his own death? He did swallow the pill after all.

 

 _He_ sighed, melding with the shadows that crept beneath one of the bodies; forgetting the whole interaction altogether. Right then. Back to work.

 

+

 

It was only by chance that months later, did the reluctant deaths became something of a fascination to _Him_. Three serial-suicides already, and they couldn’t leave a note. He almost had his chance with the last one, however, he was already foaming to the mouth to be able to provide some form of description, and his killer had disappeared into the night.

 

Miffed that he had to wait for another victim, _He_ had decided that the best way to find a serial killer was to shed his regular appearance in favour to that of sheeps clothing, and remain in London.

 

Question was, where would he be able to obtain a vessel that was alike the reflection of himself?

 

As an action to his query, he scoured London day and night, until he came to a stop in a drug den. There was a particular something that begged for his attention; he was hardly going to ignore a siren’s call.

 

Curiosity piqued, he came to a stop in front of a particular individual who - unlike the rest - appeared more wealthy than these pitiful humans. He had the sharp edges of arrogance written behind those mismatched-coloured eyes, and shark-like smile. He regarded _Him_ with bored interest, and a sneer to match.

 

“I suppose my time has come?” The individual hazarded quietly with a tinge of disdain, and arranged himself to a sitting position from his sprawl. “It’s hardly my first time to OD, however, seeing as I’m mostly lucid in this scenario, this could potentially be my last.”

 

At _His_ lack of reaction, the male pouted as though he discovered a pertinent fact.

 

“No, could hardly be. I’ve perfected my solution, and had tested this current batch multitudes of times to approve of its condition. I also thoroughly clean, and sterilize my own needles before every session, so if you would be so kind as to provide an explanation for this particular visit, that would be _lovely_.”

 

Ah. So he was familiar with _Him_ already. Perfect. So he had no need for a formal introduction.

 

“I am in need of a vessel.” Best to get down to it. “And -”

 

“You were wondering whether you could inhabit my body so that you would be able to carry on your mission, yes, yes, moving on. _Would_ you care to divulge me of the details regarding this objective you have in mind?”

 

 _He_ sighed. Now he remembered. How was it that he could ever forget meeting with this man on separate, but similar situations?

 

“I’m looking for a man.”

 

The male raised a brow lazily. He appeared to be more bored than anything, which did nothing for the flicker of annoyance that flashed up _His_ temple.

 

“A very particular man who I’d been intending to meet for a very long time - he had made a significant name for himself, but not enough to be a household name. Current events convey that he might be involved with these ‘serial-suicides’, though I have - in no way - of pursuing my conjecture unless there would be a reason to do so.”

 

“And this ‘reason’, would it have to do with adhering yourself to me?”

 

“Yes.” Came his reply. Manipulation seemed beneath him at the moment.

 

The man hummed in thought, but there was no mistaking the palpable interest in his gaze.

 

“And this adversary of yours, is he...someone of significant power?”

 

This time _He_ hummed.

 

“I should hope so, he does have a record for that kind of thing; framing terrorists attacks, worldwide embezzling, but only through the records of suicide-homicide rate is what I could recall; I’m sure there are more, but some might’ve chosen to be his underling instead -”

 

“Deal.”

 

 _He_ paused at the word to study the man’s visage.

 

“Just like that?”

 

“Just like that.”

 

It took a few moments for the information to sink in, before _He_ reached towards the man’s neck with his claws. Well, that was easy.

 

“ _Only_ through the condition that this body would solely be mine, once you’re finished with it.”

 

Damn.

 

With pointy claws biting at his impenetrable skin through clenched fists, a plan came into fruition. Finishing was something he had never anticipated, but if the promise of it would appease this man’s concerns, then for sure, the body would still be his, after _He_ was done with it (which was essentially an indefinite amount of time).

 

“Is that all?”

 

The man merely smirked.

 

And with that, _His_ mark appeared on the skin of this vessel’s heart, and his vision blanked for a moment before his view changed from looking at the other man, to having pale feet atop worn, dirty cushions.

 

With a grimy hand, _He_ sifted through the dark curls, as he got himself situated at an upright manner. The drug still pumped through _Sherlock Holmes’_  system, but with his ability, he removed the toxins from the bloodstream. Couldn’t have dizzy spells messing about in Sherlock Holmes’...no... _His_ system whilst he carried on his mission.

 

Now, what to do next.

 

At the sound of ringing, he reflexively reached for his pocket, only to stop when he recalled through Sherlock’s memories of who this man was. No. It couldn’t be him...could it?

 

“Mycroft?”

 

“Ah, I see you’ve finally decided to do something productive, brother dear.”

 

He pinched his brows together, and scowled to an empty space. Of course Mycroft would be this man’s brother. He should’ve asked about the rubbish choice of name, but never got around it. Now it all made sense.

 

“Well, I could hardly call recreational drug-use _productive_ , but you’re hardly a good influence with your arse practically mended to your seat. Did you finally give in to that second slice like I suggested?” The memories of similar distaste for his brother flowed through _Him_ like a barrage of ongoing warfare.

 

Mycroft sighed like _He_ predicted he would, and there was a brief pause on the line.

 

“Just...make sure that this body ends up in one piece, once you’ve stopped playing dollhouse, would you?”

 

This got his hackles raising. Was that...sentiment he just heard?

 

“Mycroft -”

 

“Not that I care any less for your well-being, dear brother, just that...not him.” And if it wasn’t enough to hear his brother at such a state. “Sherlock...he’s...breakable.” Another pause. “Please...for me.”

 

He closed his eyes at the sudden rush of irritation, underlined with a certain degree of comfort underneath all the childhood resentment. Ah. So the feelings didn’t just go one way, then.

 

“Sherrinford.”

 

“Yes, yes, _yes_ , fine! I won’t do anything harmful to his body.”

 

“Thank you.” Before he could take a stab at the hang-up button. “Do keep in touch, brother, would you?”

 

And he ended the call.

 

Numbing himself from the feelings completely (pesky things), he started ambling himself with this new set of skin. He could hardly concentrate with them running amok.

 

With one last glance towards the screen, he pocketed the phone, and reached towards the coat and scarf stashed underneath all the supposed rubbish.

 

Right then. Time to go be Sherlock Holmes.

 

+

 

He was studying the dust composition of the fabric from the last victim’s scarf when he heard the door open. He scanned the area manually, using Sherlock’s memories to identify that this man was a veteran, recently returned home from Afghanistan or Iraq, and dismissed both Mike Stamford, and his companion’s imposition.

 

“A bit different from my day.”

 

Army-doctor, then. With what appears to be a psychosomatic limp. Something about the observation stood out to him, but he couldn’t recall it at the moment, seeing as he was transfixed in the Work. Anything else was background noise.

 

Words were exchanged, blah,blah,blah,blah, and he was nearly out the door when a challenge was thrown his direction.

 

“Is that it?”

 

For some reason, his body turned to regard the shorter man. What was happening? He didn’t will it to do that.

 

“Is that _what_ ?” And now _He_ ’s saying things. Something was definitely going on here.

 

“We just met, we’re going to look at a flat.”

 

“Problem.”

 

And then the name had triggered memories of his own. This was _John Watson_ he was speaking to. The latter threw Mike a ‘can you believe this guy’ look. Which should be offending, but…

 

“We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, and I don’t even know your name.”

 

It was then that his reign over this body was snatched away from his hands completely, and all he could do was watch, as Sherlock Holmes’ consciousness crept up from behind him to whisper at one ear.

 

“My turn.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Kudo? A compliment? Anyone? :D


End file.
